


Personal Effects

by smarshtastic



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Fall of Overwatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 07:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10635591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smarshtastic/pseuds/smarshtastic
Summary: What is he waiting for? Gabe isn’t going to magically appear inside that backpack. Nothing in that backpack is going to change what happened. Jesse still left. Gabe is still going to be dead. People don’t come back from the dead.---Jesse receives some of Gabe's personal effects after the explosion of the Swiss headquarters.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabrega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabrega/gifts).



> This is for [fabrega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabrega/) even though I'm sure she doesn't appreciate the sadness. Ha ha, whoops? Sorry for the feelings, everyone. 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://wictorwictor.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/smarshtastic).

Jesse loses time after the explosion of the Swiss headquarters. Wracked with guilt, Jesse finds oblivion in the bottom of endless bottles of whiskey. It's easier to drink himself into a stupor than deal with the tangle of emotions that consumes him in his few minutes of clarity. He should've been there, he should never have left; maybe he could have  _ prevented  _ it, instead of cutting his losses and running. He burns with anger: for the way the United Nations treated Overwatch, for the way Overwatch - specifically Jack Morrison - treated Blackwatch - specifically Gabe. He's angry at Gabe for not doing more to fight back, for not trying harder to find Jesse again. He's angry at the way everyone is treating Gabe like a scapegoat, like a fucking monster - despite everything that’s happened, Jesse knows better. 

Something inside Jesse aches, acutely, with loss. 

The bottle is better, easier. 

Jesse is supposed to be staying off the grid and doing good deeds with his freedom from Overwatch’s shackles. But now - now that Overwatch is gone and Gabe is dead - what’s the point? A small, unacknowledged part of him had hoped that the things he was doing would catch Gabe’s attention, change his mind, make him find Jesse again and bring him back. If Gabe had just admitted that he couldn’t do it alone, that he needed help, Jesse would’ve gone back and helped him fix it. In a heartbeat. All Gabe had to do was ask. 

Gabe never did. He's dead now, and he never will. 

In the months after the explosion, Jesse loses track of where he is, the date, what he's supposed to be doing. He doesn't bother keeping a low profile, even when he's sober enough to remember that he isn't exactly well liked by most of the world’s governments. He's vaguely aware of the United Nation’s investigation. He doesn't care; they can arrest him, they can kill him, there's no point in trying to keep going any more. Jesse hates himself for ascribing so much value to Gabe’s good opinion, for pinning his hopes on someone who, apparently, turned out to have been using him like so many others before him. Was Jesse ever actually doing any good with Blackwatch, or was it just trading one black hat for another? Just because it was above board, more or less - from the government’s perspective - it wasn't necessarily  _ better _ . Jesse vividly remembers being sent on missions with Blackwatch where it didn't feel like what they were doing was serving any greater purpose, any greater good. Assassinations, sabotage, kidnapping - how stupid had Jesse been to believe that they were actually doing good work? 

It's true that he left, eventually, but not before he got his hands dirty too. 

He should've left sooner. 

He didn’t because Jesse  _ loved _ Gabe. He thought Gabe loved him too - didn't he? Those quiet moments between missions, sleeping by each other’s infirmary beds when things went wrong, stolen kisses, tangled sheets, heated arguments when things started going downhill… Why would Gabe have bothered if he didn't love Jesse back?

Still, the insidious voice in the back of Jesse’s head reminds him that Gabe let Jesse walk away. That Gabe never went after him. That Gabe didn't fight for him, dropped him, forgot about him. It wasn't like Jesse severed all ties, either. There were plenty of ways Gabe could've found him but he never did. 

Now he's dead.

He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. 

The phrase repeats like a chant in Jesse’s mind while he does his best to drain a bottle of bourbon he paid too much for. It's supposed to be good stuff, but Jesse doesn't taste it any more. It hardly even burns the back of his throat as it goes down. He's numb, but not numb enough. He buys another bottle. 

A persistent, high pitched tone rouses Jesse from where he's passed out: draped over the back of a chair, face pressed against the hard surface of the table in a dingy motel room. He doesn't remember getting here, or where in the world he is. The last thing he remembers is buying the second bottle… Or was it a third? The back of the chair is pressing uncomfortably into his ribs and Jesse winces as he straightens. He finds the source of the ringing - his comm, a few inches away from a mostly empty bottle tipped over on its side. Jesse fumbles with his comm, squinting at the screen. 

_ Valdez, Stef _ . 

Jesse blinks dumbly. The call goes to voicemail. 

She's alive. 

Blackwatch was bleeding agents around the time that Jesse finally left. Stef was one of the few - the very few - who stuck it out. She had been on Gabe’s strike team with Jesse. Jesse doesn’t have time to fully process the thought that she could be alive before the comm pings again with a voicemail notification. Jesse pulls it up to listen to it. 

“Hey,” Stef says. She sounds tired, frustrated; her words come out stilted - like she's speaking through gritted teeth. “If this is still your number, Jesse, we should probably talk.”

Jesse sets the comm down. A wave of emotions crashes over Jesse, jostling for attention all at once. The liquor isn’t helping. He rubs a hand over his face. He kept in touch with Stef after he left Blackwatch, but it was always strained, at best. He had a hunch she was pissed at him for leaving and then after the explosion… Jesse presumed she was dead. He's not sure how he feels now, knowing she survived it. He tries to ignore the spark of hope - for what, he's not sure - that suddenly blooms in the back of his mind. 

Jesse gets up and the room wobbles around him, the bourbon sloshing around in his brain. He stumbles into the tiny bathroom to splash some water on his face. He glances at his reflection - something he mostly tries to avoid these days. His facial hair is long, unkempt, his hair longer and scraggly. There's dark circles under his eyes and he looks puffy. He's lost weight. Jesse has to look away. 

He stumbles back to the table and picks the comm up, turns it over in his hands before he calls Stef back. She picks up after several rings. 

“Hello?” Stef answers, voice suspicious. Jesse breathes out. 

“Stef. It's Jesse,” he says, his own voice coming it in a hoarse croak. He clears his throat. There's a pause on the other end. 

“Is this line secure?” she asks. 

“I guess I oughta be asking you that,” Jesse says. Another pause. “It's secure, Stef.”

“Good,” she says. Jesse waits for more, but she doesn't supply anything else. 

“Your message said - you said we should talk?” he prompts. He hears Stef sigh on the other end of the line. 

“Look, I don't - I can't really deal with you right now. After everything -” Stef stops, takes a breath. “I've got some stuff, some of Reyes’ stuff. I’m supposed to hand it over to his sister, but.”

Jesse’s world tilts and spins. He drops a hand to the table to steady himself. Stef sounds far away. His breath sticks in his throat and the blood rushes in his ears. He hears what she's saying, but is having a hard time processing it. 

“I just thought you should take a look before I do that.”

Jesse manages a hoarse  _ oh _ . He can practically hear her frown over the comms. 

“Is that all you have to say?” Stef asks, her voice going hard. “After you left - you know what happened. If you cared at  _ all  _ -”

“Don't,” Jesse interrupts harshly. “Don't start that, Stef.”

“You weren't there,” she shoots back. “You don't know what it was like. You don't have any idea. I'm not doing this for you - I'm doing this for Reyes. Out of respect for my commander.”

Dimly, he registers that Stef’s voice wavers in a way that Jesse has never heard before. He swallows down the bile that rises up the back of his throat as he's overcome by his own guilt again. He grips the edge of the table, knuckles going white. 

“I appreciate it,” Jesse says finally, softly. “I really - I'd want to take a look.”

A long pause. 

“Stef?”

“Yeah,” she says finally. “Great. I'll send some coordinates.”

“Okay.”

Stef hangs up with a click. Jesse reaches for what's left of the bottle. 

=-=-=

The coordinates don't come for a number of days. It's enough time for Jesse to sober up and then fall off the wagon three times over. Every time he thinks he has a handle on his mental state, he backslides into another bottle of whiskey. 

Jesse is curled up on the cold, grimy tile of the bathroom floor riding out wave after wave of nausea when the comm finally pings with the coordinates from Stef. He hauls himself up and feels the bile rise in his throat again. He leans over the toilet just in time, but there’s not much left to throw up. Jesse spits, drags the back of his hand over his mouth, and struggles to his feet. 

In the bedroom, Jesse finds the comm on the nightstand. The text from Stef just has coordinates and a date, nothing else. Jesse boggles at the date. His knees give out and he sits down hard on the edge of the bed as he tries to figure out exactly how much time he lost. It’s a lot. Jesse glances around the room, but all of his bottles are empty. He swallows down the bile again. 

He has a day or two to get to the coordinates Stef sent him. Jesse chokes down some water, tosses the empty bottles scattered around the room, and packs up his bag with what few possessions he has left: Peacekeeper, a change or two of clothes, a beat up tablet, his old tattered serape. He hotwires a truck and sets out onto the highway. 

It’s only when Jesse’s a few miles out from the rendezvous with Stef that it even occurs to Jesse that this could all be a trap. 

Jesse veers off the highway and finds himself a suitably shitty motel room. It’s late, but he still sweeps it for bugs, mostly out of habit. Satisfied that the room is clear, Jesse sits down heavily on the bed, trying not to think about how much he could use a drink or seven. He needs to be clear-headed for this. 

Stef Valdez was one of the best Blackwatch had to offer. Jesse had been close with her when he was still an agent - she took him seriously, even though there was no reason for her to, at least at first. He trusted her. He didn’t have any reason  _ not _ to trust her anymore, but the small, nagging voice of Jesse’s limited self-preservation instincts worried. The explosion was months ago and she never reached out. The United Nations’ investigation was over - at least, that’s what they said. 

So, what? Stef turns him over to the United Nations? Would that be so bad? 

Or she kills him? 

Better her than someone else, if Jesse was being honest. He hasn’t managed to get around to it himself, even though it’s been an ever-present option in his mind for months now. If Stef kills him, at least it would all be over. 

If those are the worst options, well. It’s not like Jesse has anything better to look forward to. 

He gets up again and flips off the lights. After he kicks off his boots and strips down to his underwear, Jesse tries to sleep on the scratchy motel sheets. Even though he’s resigned himself to whatever Stef decides to do with him, Jesse can’t fall asleep. He tosses and turns. He realizes his mind is too preoccupied, trying to think of what Gabe could’ve left behind that Stef thought he’d need to see. 

It would be a greater betrayal if Stef used the memory of Gabe, the lure of something he left behind, to draw Jesse out. 

Blackwatch knew about Jesse’s relationship with Gabe, more or less. It was technically against the fraternization rules within Overwatch in general, but Gabe was in charge of Blackwatch, and Blackwatch wasn't known to play by anyone’s rules but their own. He made sure that they didn’t let their relationship get in the way: no special treatment, no public displays of affection, no taking advantage of Gabe’s position. Stef was one of the first people to know about Jesse and Gabe, and was certainly one who needed more convincing than others. But she came around; Jesse and Gabe’s relationship strengthened Blackwatch. 

At least until everything fell apart. 

Jesse tries not to think about Gabe, how much he misses him. Jesse made a choice to leave Gabe and Blackwatch, as much as it hurt, but Gabe made a choice to let him go, too. 

Jesse could really use a drink. 

The night stretches on. Jesse watches the beams of light filter in from the parking lot through the blinds and stretch across the ceiling. They fade as the sky lightens with the morning and Jesse drags himself out of bed. He needs a drink. Or at least some coffee. 

Jesse gets back into the stolen truck and drives the rest of the way to meet Stef. The coordinates turn out to be an inconspicuous diner on the edge of a small industrial town. Jesse parks the truck on the other side of town and walks the rest of the way to the diner. He lights a cigarette as he goes, letting the smoke curl over his tongue and sweep over his brain. It soothes the jitters a little, but not enough. 

It's still early by the time Jesse gets to the diner. He finishes his cigarette slowly, forcing himself to take his time. He considers lighting another one as he stubs out the butt under the heel of his boot. Instead, Jesse steps inside. 

The funny thing about diners, Jesse thinks as his eyes sweep the dining room, is that you could be anywhere in the world and they'll all look the same. He's willing to bet that if there was a diner on the moon, it wouldn't look much different than this. It's an advantage, in some ways: Jesse knows all of his escape routes, as if he's been here before. 

The hostess ambles over and leads Jesse to a booth by the kitchen with a window looking out at the parking lot, per Jesse’s request. He orders a coffee and sits back in his seat, fingers drumming on the tabletop. 

Jesse makes it through three cups of coffee before Stef steps into the diner. He perks up a little - he hasn't seen a familiar face in months. Stef speaks briefly with the hostess before she spots Jesse. Her face goes a little hard. She hoists a backpack further up her shoulder and makes her way to Jesse. She slides into the booth across from Jesse, who suddenly feels like he shouldn't be making eye contact. 

“Hey,” he says after an awkward moment of silence. Stef looks at Jesse critically, her eyes sharp and piercing, if not weary around the edges. 

“You look like shit,” she says finally. The corner of Jesse’s mouth tugs up in a ghost of his old smirk. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It's been rough.”

Stef’s hand clenches around the strap of the backpack. She closes her eyes briefly, as if to compose herself. When she opens them, she levels a dangerous look at Jesse. 

“I don't want to hear how hard it's been for you,” she says harshly. She drops the backpack down on the seat next to her. Jesse swallows.

“Sorry,” he says sincerely, chastened. Stef looks away, out the window, composing herself. The waitress comes by again. 

“More coffee?” she asks. Jesse glances up. 

“Make it two,” Jesse says, nodding to Stef. The waitress nods. 

“Anything else?” the waitress asks. Stef is still staring out the window, not acknowledging the waitress at all. 

“We’ll let you know,” Jesse says. The waitress gives Stef an odd look but demurs, slipping away to get the coffee. Stef lets a breath out once she's gone. Jesse leans forward a little. “What can I do, Stef?”

Stef shakes her head, leaning back in her own seat, away from Jesse. Everything about her body language makes it clear that she doesn't want to be near him right now. 

“You've done enough, Jesse,” she says. Hurt, and knowing he has no right to feel that way, Jesse sits back in his seat. Something flits across Stef’s face before it resettles on hard and distant. The silence between them stretches on. 

“So, you gonna arrest me or kill me or what?” Jesse asks, finally, just to break the silence. Stef lets out a small, bitten off noise that might be a laugh. 

“No, I meant what I said,” she says. “There's some things - I don't know how you and Reyes ended up, but. I thought you should take a look.”

Jesse’s heart is suddenly pounding in his throat. The fingers of his metal hand clench on the table and the sound of crumbling laminate jerks him out of his head. The waitress comes by with another mug and the coffee pot. She eyes the smashed edge of the table and looks at Jesse with alarm. She's spotted his metal hand. He drops his hand into his lap. The waitress fills both mugs and scurries away. 

“I - yeah. I'd like to take a look,” Jesse manages to say. “It's why I came.”

Stef narrows her eyes at him. Jesse tries to keep his emotions down, out of his expression, but he's having a hard time, what with the way his heart is getting riled up, beating erratically against his ribs. He hopes that Stef realizes he's sincere. 

“Did you ever talk to him, after you left?”

Jesse swallows, shakes his head. “No. I didn't.”

He remembers vividly the last argument they had. Gabe was beaten down, tired, frustrated. Nothing had been going right, they'd lost people, they'd lost funding, they'd lost nearly all of the United Nations’ confidence. It was late, they were supposed to be sleeping, but instead they were arguing. Again. Gabe had rubbed a hand over his face and snapped at Jesse -  _ just leave then _ . Jesse, exhausted from arguing, from trying to get Gabe to see sense, gave up. His shoulders sagged, he shook his head.

“What if I did?” he had asked. Gabe had just looked at him, eyes sad, defeated. 

“Guess I couldn't stop you,” Gabe had said. 

Jesse left before first light the next morning. 

They never spoke after that. 

“Stubborn,” Stef says with a scoff. She turns her gaze out to the window again. “If you had just talked to each other -”

“You think I didn't try?” Jesse shoots back, sharper than he means to. Stef’s gaze snaps back to him. 

“After you left?”

Jesse sags. He didn't - not directly. Everywhere he went, Jesse left clues that Gabe would've recognized if he was looking for him. Jesse held out hope that Gabe would go after him. He didn't think it was his place to reach out. Maybe someone could fight for him for once. But days turned to weeks turned to months and… nothing. 

If Gabe had loved him - really, truly loved him - he would've gone after Jesse. Jesse convinced himself that it had all been a lie, that Gabe had used and discarded him. It seemed more plausible than any of the other other options. 

“He made it clear enough,” Jesse says, voice going hoarse, threatening to break. Stef frowns. 

“Maybe you're just an idiot,” Stef suggests. Jesse opens his mouth to protest but Stef hushes him with a look. He presses his lips together, biting down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Stef lifts the backpack off the seat next to her and sets it on the table. “You should look through this stuff. I get if - if you want some privacy. I can pick up whatever you don't want, same time tomorrow.”

Jesse looks at the backpack then back up at Stef. Her expression betrays no emotion. 

“Stef -” Jesse starts to say but she's already getting up. 

“I'm still pissed at you, Jesse McCree,” she says. There's tears in her eyes. That shakes something to Jesse’s core. “I can't help but think that things would've turned out differently if you had actually stayed to fight it out. But Reyes - I think this is what he would've wanted. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Stef leaves the diner, her cup of coffee untouched. Jesse stares at the backpack. His heart is back to hammering in his throat. He reaches out and touches the backpack, dragging his fingers across the canvas. It doesn't immediately explode, even though it feels like sparks of electricity are shooting up his fingers. Jesse has to remind himself it's just his imagination. He swallows thickly and drags his hand away. He fishes around in his pocket for some cash to throw on the table. He doesn't bother counting it out - it should cover the coffee, a tip, and whatever damage he did to the table. Jesse grabs the backpack and leaves. 

=-=-=

Jesse finds a liquor store on his way to another motel. The weight of the whiskey bottle in his hand does nothing to distract him from the weight of the backpack on his shoulder. When he finally keys into the motel room, Jesse drops the backpack on the bed. He stands there for a few moments, staring at it. He takes a long drink from the bottle, eyes closing, taking comfort in the burn down his throat. 

He stops. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Jesse moves away to set the bottle down on the nightstand. He sweeps the room, just in case - taking a small comfort in the familiar movements of the habit more so than for the concern of his personal security. 

Jesse comes back to the bed but the backpack hasn't moved. He takes a deep breath, but it does nothing to soothe his nerves. 

What is he waiting for? Gabe isn’t going to magically appear inside that backpack. Nothing in that backpack is going to change what happened. Jesse still left. Gabe is still going to be dead. People don’t come back from the dead. 

Jesse glances at the bottle on the nightstand, but he doesn’t reach for it. He should be sober for this. Out of respect, at least. 

He’ll need it to dull the pain later, anyway. 

Jesse opens the backpack and starts pulling out its contents. He sets each item on the bed carefully, reverently, even as his hands start to shake. 

A sheaf of postcards. A veritable treasure trove of military medals. There’s a tablet, badly damaged with an evidence sticker on it. An old, beat up photo tablet. A real, framed photograph of Gabe’s family. A half-empty pack of cigarettes, Blackwatch’s preferred brand. A cheap plastic lighter. A small black velvet box. At the bottom of the backpack, Jesse finds a soft, worn in hoodie. 

Disbelievingly, Jesse twists his fingers in the soft fabric of the hoodie. It is, without a doubt, the hoodie that Jesse stole from Gabe early on in their relationship. The hoodie that Jesse slept with every night Gabe was away, that Jesse would make Gabe wear again when he’d come back, to make it smell like him all over again. It’s just like he remembers, worn in all the right places, the Blackwatch patch fraying on the shoulder. Jesse’s knees wobble and give out. He sinks to the floor, dragging the hoodie down with him. He presses his face into the fabric and inhales deeply. It still  _ smells _ like him. Jesse sucks in a breath and lets it out in a broken, heart-rending sob. He keeps breathing in Gabe’s smell, letting it envelop and overcome him. The loss hits Jesse so suddenly, so acutely, that it’s all that he can do to gasp for breath. 

A long, long time later, when the tears finally stop falling and Jesse is hoarse from crying, he sits up again. He can’t pry his hands away from the hoodie. Clutching it to his chest, Jesse finally looks at the other things the backpack has to offer. 

Jesse knew that Gabe was highly decorated, but he didn't know  _ how _ decorated, exactly. Whenever they had to put on dress uniforms to parade in front of the United Nations or the press, Gabe would complain about how jangly his uniform was. Jesse realizes now that Gabe hardly wore any of the medals he'd been honored with. He still doesn't know enough about the military to say with any confidence what the medals represent, but he can guess: bravery, honor, years of service and sacrifice. It reignites an indignant flame in Jesse’s chest: Gabe gave the world everything he had, and now he's only remembered as a monster, a villain, a double agent. 

The damaged tablet with the evidence sticker seems to have been tampered with; it looks like someone tried to circumvent whatever encryptions were on the tablet in the most crude way possible. Jesse wonders what had been on it that warranted the effort. He turns it over in his hands. Gabe was a private man - suspiciously so, as far as the United Nations was concerned. An encrypted tablet would’ve raised alarm bells. Jesse tries to turn on the tablet, but it’s dead. If he had to guess, its contents were personal. Incriminating? Jesse wasn’t convinced. 

Jesse picks up the sheaf of postcards. He recognizes his own handwriting where Gabe’s address is scribbled. None of the postcards have messages. Jesse left them blank, mostly on purpose, partially because he didn’t know what he actually wanted to say to Gabe. He started sending the postcards a few weeks after he left Blackwatch. Jesse was still city hopping then - moving around, trying to find good deeds that needed doing. Anything to keep his mind occupied and his hands busy. 

The postcards were a reckless, desperate cry for attention. Jesse would get low, lonely, needy. He sent them to Gabe, hoping that he would use the postmarks to track him down or at least reach out to him. Since Jesse never heard from Gabe, he assumed that Gabe had never received them, that they had been intercepted by authorities looking for him, or simply lost in the mail. No post office in the world was known for its reliability. As time went on, Jesse convinced himself that maybe Gabe  _ did  _ get them, but tossed them in the garbage. 

But they’re all here here: from Vietnam to Nicaragua, Morocco to Tasmania, every last postcard Jesse sent is bundled up here. 

Gabe got the postcards - but he didn’t do anything? Jesse’s fingers clutch the hoodie closer to his chest. Why would he deign to keep them, then? If he cared enough to keep them...

Jesse sets the postcards aside, not sure what to make of them. He picks up the framed photograph instead. Gabe’s family - he can see the resemblance among his sisters and in the face of the severe man who must be Gabe’s father. Jesse was under the impression that Gabe didn't see his family often, but he always spoke of his sisters fondly. Once, Jesse met one of Gabe’s sisters, Christina. It was before they got together, but Jesse had a desperate crush on his commander and was eager to learn any little thing about his personal life that he could. It was hard, because Gabe was so private, but watching him open up with his sister was like a revelation to Jesse. 

He wonders if Stef is bringing all of these things to Christina. He wonders, maybe, if he'd be allowed to go along. 

Jesse puts the frame aside, carefully, and picks up the photo tablet. He recognizes the tablet from one of Gabe’s personal lockers. Jesse had found it once when he was digging for a pair of sweatpants, tucked into the back of Gabe’s sock drawer. He thought he had found Gabe’s secret porn stash, or something similarly incriminating - it turned out, Gabe had just been more sentimental than anyone gave him credit for. Gabe had tugged it out of Jesse’s hands before he had a chance to really look at it. Jesse didn’t put up much of a fight; everyone needed to have their secrets. 

Now, though, the tablet is unguarded. Jesse clicks it on, not expecting it to be charged, not expecting it to be unlocked - but it’s both. The first thing Jesse sees is a picture of himself, in a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt and straw hat, posing on the hood of a red convertible. Jesse chokes out a surprised laugh. He scrolls through the rest of the pictures: Jesse posing with a younger Fareeha; the Blackwatch squad mugging to the camera on the practice range; more pictures of Fareeha, some with Ana, many with Jesse; and then more and more of Jesse. He recognizes some of them - pictures he took himself, texted to Gabe, who apparently saved them down. Others are clearly from other sources. At least a couple are from Fareeha or Ana, some are from Angela. 

Then there are the pictures of Jesse with Gabe. 

Jesse’s breath sticks in his throat. He sinks back down to the floor, clutching the hoodie to his chest, his back against the foot of the bed. 

Some of the pictures were clearly taken by Fareeha, when she thought she was being sneaky. Gabe and Jesse poring over some mission assignments, heads tipped close together. Jesse looking at Gabe with stars in his eyes and vice versa. Gabe actually laughing, his head tipped back, arms folded over his chest, Jesse looking like he’s won the lottery. 

Jesse forgets to breathe when he scrolls to the next one: he sees himself cheek to cheek with Gabe, flowers woven through both of their hair, both of them smiling bright and happy. It's from one of their spring picnics in the Swiss Alps. 

He had thought these pictures were gone forever. 

The next several pictures are clearly from private moments between Gabe and Jesse. Gabe smiling open and almost vulnerable with Jesse’s lips pressed to his cheek. Nothing dirty, but… intimate. All pictures they took themselves, together, when they managed to steal a moment or two of peace between their ever present obligations. 

Jesse didn't know that Gabe kept all of these. 

He leans his head back against the bed, vision blurring with tears again. Why would Gabe have kept all this if he didn't…?

Jesse squeezes the hoodie close, letting the tears come. He misses the tenderness, the softness of Gabe’s touches, the scratchy brush of his facial hair across his cheek, the physical intimacy - the  _ comfort _ \- of having Gabe, warm and solid, beside him. Jesse had always been touch-starved, greedy for the affection and little affirmations, small touches. Now that Jesse’s been alone, again, for so long, he didn't realize how much he missed it. His chest aches with the loss. He looks so happy in those pictures with Gabe. It had been the first - and only? - place he ever felt like he belonged: at Gabe’s side, doing good work. 

How could he be so stupid?

Jesse crawls up onto the bed, curling up on the mattress with his face pressed into Gabe’s hoodie. He breathes in the scent, tries to remember what it was like to be safe and happy in Gabe’s arms. 

His knee bumps up against something small and hard. Jesse picks up his head again. He spots the small black velvet box and hesitates. It's clearly a jewelry box. Jesse knows it's not Gabe’s dog tags - he's worn them for years himself, and has never had the heart to take them off. 

Jesse sits up and picks up the box, turning it over in his hands. He opens it. 

A shiny gold band rests on the pillow inside. Jesse recognizes the ring immediately: it's the ring Gabe wore on a mission where the two of them were under cover as a married couple. Newlyweds. The same mission from the picture of Jesse on the hood of the convertible. 

Gabe kept the ring. 

To be fair, Jesse kept his too. It's tucked in the false bottom pocket of his duffle. But he didn't think…

Neither of them made many future plans. Jesse always figured he'd be dead by 30. They never had any substantive conversations about what they might do after Blackwatch - neither of them thought that there would be anything after Blackwatch. 

Jesse tries his left hand first, but the ring won't fit over his metal joints. He slides the ring on his right hand, feeling the cool weight of the gold start to warm to his skin. It's not quite right, it doesn't fit how it should and Jesse can't help but think about how it should be on his left hand. Seems fitting that he can't have that any more. He never let himself think about what it would be like to be married to Gabe, to spend the rest of his life with him, and now that it's no longer a possibility, Jesse can't help his thoughts that drift to what  _ could  _ have been, what will  _ never  _ be. 

Gabe deserved so much better. He deserved so much more than what he got. He deserved to live a long, happy, full life with someone who would have stuck by his side even when times got hard. 

Jesse had abandoned him and then he died. 

Jesse can't quite weather the waves of guilt that crash over him. He lies down again, letting the guilt overcome him. He clutches his right hand in the hoodie and stares at the ring on his finger. 

The rest of the day and night passes by in a blur of competing feelings. Without the whiskey to dull his senses, Jesse is catapulted through a gamut of mourning, alternating between anger and guilt and hopelessness and sadness. 

Jesse finally rouses himself sometime after sunrise. He drags the back of hand over his face. Carefully, deliberately, Jesse gathers up all of Gabe’s things from where they've been scattered across the bed and repacks the backpack. He pauses when he gets to the lighter, turning it over in his hands, confused as to why such a cheap tchotchke is tucked in with all of Gabe’s more personal items. 

Suddenly, the memory strikes Jesse: it was their first mission together, just the two of them. They passed through a casino while tracking down a money laundering scheme. When they found the cash and the people transporting it, Gabe had congratulated Jesse on a job well done. Jesse had bought the lighter for Gabe - a memento, a reminder of their first mission, the start of many good things to come. Jesse had said something cheesy about sparks; Gabe had laughed and shook his head. He offered Jesse a cigarette, then, even though he had made Jesse quit for basic training. Jesse remembers leaning in so Gabe could light the end of his cigarette with the lighter he had given him. He remembers meeting Gabe’s eyes through the curl of smoke and knowing, somehow, that it was the start of something bigger. 

Jesse tucks the lighter in carefully with the rest of Gabe’s things. 

He feels oddly numb. He wouldn't call it peaceful, exactly - maybe just wrung out. Jesse slings the backpack over his shoulder and goes to meet Stef. 

She's already there, in the same booth as the day before, sipping from a mug, when Jesse slides into the seat across from her. He touches the broken edge of the table with the tips of his metal fingers, avoiding Stef’s gaze as she looks up. Jesse peeks up just in time to see her brow twitches together briefly before smoothing back out. Jesse wonders briefly how bad he looks. He drops his hand from the edge of the table. 

“Stef,” he says, his voice coming out hoarse, used. He's holding the backpack in his lap, tightly against his chest. “Did you… did you look at all this?”

“Yeah,” she nods. Jesse swallows thickly. 

“Why did you…?”

“I remember what it was like with you two, when things were good. Reyes never looked happier than when he was with you.”

Jesse looks away, trying to compose himself. 

“I want to take this to his sister.”

Stef sets the mug down with a sharp tap. “That's a bad idea.”

“I know. I just - I gotta make some amends,” Jesse says. He can't help the way his voice breaks, the note of pleading coming into it. “Please, Stef. I know I ain't got any right - I just… I  _ need _ …”

Stef doesn't say anything for a long time. 

“They'll arrest you,” she says. 

“Maybe they oughta,” he says. “I ain't got nothing to lose.”

Finally, she says, “Fine. It's for Reyes, not you.”

=-=-=

Jesse takes the long way to Los Angeles. He's careful, this time - making sure to lie low, not draw any attention to himself. He doesn't drink, even though his body screams for it. He wants to do this right. 

Christina’s house sits back from a small street, a huge oak shadowing the front yard. Jesse’s fingers clench and flex around the wheel of the nondescript car he picked up somewhere in Utah. His heart is pounding. He works up enough courage to grab the backpack and walk up the front path to ring the bell. He rocks on his heels as he waits, listening for sounds inside the house. The door opens and Jesse hastily yanks his hat off his head. The woman standing there is so obviously related to Gabe - it makes something clutch around his heart. 

“Christina?” he blurts out. She looks at him suspiciously. 

“Who are you?” she asks. Jesse shakes his head a little. 

“Sorry, you probably don't remember me. I worked with your brother. I got - I got some of his… his personal effects,” Jesse says, even as his throat starts to close up. Christina looks past him for a moment, both ways down the street, then looks at Jesse critically in a painfully familiar way. 

“You better come inside.”

=-=-=

Weeks later, Jesse finds himself near the Grand Mesa base. It had been a favorite of his and Gabe’s, once upon a time. Autumn was cooling into winter, the land going brittle and barren from horizon to horizon. Jesse stands on a little rise in the landscape and sucks in a deep breath of the crisp air. He takes a long drag of a cigarette, Blackwatch’s preferred brand, and spins the ring on the chain around his neck, listening to it click against the dog tags he still wears. 

It hasn't gotten easier. Maybe it never will. But at least he knows now with certainty that - in spite of everything - Gabriel Reyes loved him until his dying day. 


End file.
